Pushback

Robert’s new volatility is the damnedest thing. It’s
impossible to gauge when a fit will strike, because there’s no pattern. One
day, you can announce bathtime and he’ll gleefully strip and race you to the
tub; the next day, he’ll wedge himself behind the armchair and keen like a
banshee. It’s a good thing Bruce Banner got hit with the gamma rays as an
adult. If the Hulk were three years old, he’d have ripped through about 30
pairs of shoes per day.

Robert and I spent most of Saturday morning in the park, trying to run
over living things with his trike. (He pedals like a champ, but he still doesn’t grasp the importance of focusing your vision beyond the front
wheel.) On the way home, the Red Hand started blinking across Third Ave., so I
steered him south and waited for Walking Guy.

Oh, the effrontery!

He: “No, no, no! We have to go that way!”
Me: “Sorry, but that’s a red light. We can go this way. It’s still on the way
home.”
He: “No! It is not the way home!”
Me: “Yes it is. We live right down there.”
He: [pointing in the opposite direction and shrieking] “NO! We do not! We live
up thaaaat way!”

Several minutes of pointless bickering gave way to a startling revelation:

He: “I’m never going home again!”
Me: “Why?”
He: “Because I don’t like you. You’re very old, and you have to go to the
hospital and stay there!”
Me: “Then we really should go home, so you can take care of Mama.”
He: “No! I don’t want to see Mama!”
Me: “Why not? Mama wants to see you because she loves you.”
He: “No! No! No! Mama does not love me!”

It is also a peculiar quirk of nature that a child’s tantrum
reflex becomes so sensitive right when he’s gets too big for a stroller. Because, according to Newton’s little-known Fourth Law of Motion, bringing
a child anywhere on a tricycle against his will is impossible. You can bargain, cajole, and threaten. You can even try
leaning on the rear wand and pushing him along while he pops a wheelie, but
that just pisses him off even more. Eventually, the only thing to do is to
hoist 40 pounds of distraught, flailing boyflesh in your right arm, drag the
trike with your left, and plod home muttering.

Comments

Pushback

Robert’s new volatility is the damnedest thing. It’s
impossible to gauge when a fit will strike, because there’s no pattern. One
day, you can announce bathtime and he’ll gleefully strip and race you to the
tub; the next day, he’ll wedge himself behind the armchair and keen like a
banshee. It’s a good thing Bruce Banner got hit with the gamma rays as an
adult. If the Hulk were three years old, he’d have ripped through about 30
pairs of shoes per day.

Robert and I spent most of Saturday morning in the park, trying to run
over living things with his trike. (He pedals like a champ, but he still doesn’t grasp the importance of focusing your vision beyond the front
wheel.) On the way home, the Red Hand started blinking across Third Ave., so I
steered him south and waited for Walking Guy.

Oh, the effrontery!

He: “No, no, no! We have to go that way!”
Me: “Sorry, but that’s a red light. We can go this way. It’s still on the way
home.”
He: “No! It is not the way home!”
Me: “Yes it is. We live right down there.”
He: [pointing in the opposite direction and shrieking] “NO! We do not! We live
up thaaaat way!”

Several minutes of pointless bickering gave way to a startling revelation:

He: “I’m never going home again!”
Me: “Why?”
He: “Because I don’t like you. You’re very old, and you have to go to the
hospital and stay there!”
Me: “Then we really should go home, so you can take care of Mama.”
He: “No! I don’t want to see Mama!”
Me: “Why not? Mama wants to see you because she loves you.”
He: “No! No! No! Mama does not love me!”

It is also a peculiar quirk of nature that a child’s tantrum
reflex becomes so sensitive right when he’s gets too big for a stroller. Because, according to Newton’s little-known Fourth Law of Motion, bringing
a child anywhere on a tricycle against his will is impossible. You can bargain, cajole, and threaten. You can even try
leaning on the rear wand and pushing him along while he pops a wheelie, but
that just pisses him off even more. Eventually, the only thing to do is to
hoist 40 pounds of distraught, flailing boyflesh in your right arm, drag the
trike with your left, and plod home muttering.